


What a Picture Can Do

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 18:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12870642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: John discovers a nude picture of Sherlock at Greg's.





	What a Picture Can Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remake of a fic I did early on in my writings.

Oh, my head, my stomach! Where am I?

Opening my eyes, closing them just as quickly as the world spins.

Ok, John Watson, you were out drinking last night with Greg and Sally.

Being teased as I remember.

Getting a ribbing about my flatmate Sherlock.

Tired of the jokes, the 'how is he in bed,' and the inferences.

In reality, we're close, very close friends.

I wasn't happy about the teasing and drank more than I should have.

* * *

Sqinting my eyes to keep the light to a minimum, I feel the sheets beneath me, not my own. Where am I? 

Sitting up on my elbows, I see a note lying on the nightstand.

          'Sorry I couldn't be here. Water and pills on the table. Tea and toast are available in the kitchen. Greg'

* * *

Aha! It's Greg's flat. 

Wait, he doesn't have an extra room!

Not good at all, John Watson.

Greg must have slept on the sofa last night. At least- I hope so!

* * *

The bathroom is my first stop, room spinning as I walk, washing up.

Sitting on the bed, downing the pills with water, I find my clothes on the chair and dress.

* * *

Thank goodness I don't have appointments at the clinic until the evening.

Ok, have to write a note to Greg thanking him.

Not ready to move too much, I open the nightstand to find paper and pencil. There are the usual items, condoms, eye drops, lube, and then-.

A picture. A picture of Sherlock lying on this very bed and taken recently from the look of him.

His eyes open, a suggestive pose, nude, displaying all.

I've never seen Sherlock without clothes. With a towel around his waist, but never in an Au-natural state.

I'm flustered, jealous. Jealous? Why?

In Greg's drawer! Why? Have Greg and Sherlock been-? Resentful, me? Why?

* * *

In our dealings with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Sherlock and Greg have only shown a father-son affection for each other.

Back in the drawer goes the picture.

* * *

Not bothering with the tea and toast I put socks and shoes on to leave. Stopping before the door, I wonder, do I, yes, I think I will.

Back to the bedroom, taking the picture out of the drawer, placing it on the bed. I find a pad and pencil lying on the counter in the kitchen. I discover a red marker in one of the drawers, and this will serve my purpose well.

Scratching a broad question mark in red on the paper, I set it next to the image, still on the bed.

* * *

Let's see what our Detective Inspector has to say about that!

* * *

That evening I'm working at the clinic, feeling better physically but not much in my head.

That picture keeps popping up.

Is Sherlock having sex with Greg? When did this happen?

And why would Greg consent to such a thing?

I thought Sherlock cared nothing for emotions. Animal instincts, as he phrased it.

Why am I getting so mental about it? He's my friend, my colleague. We work together solving criminal cases.

* * *

To be bloody honest, talking to myself, 'Dr, John Watson, you secretly desire him sexually, afraid if you express your feelings toward him he'll laugh, you'll be embarrassed, and you'll have to leave.'

* * *

Do I seriously want to jump his bones? That idea scares the shit out of me. I prefer women, not men.

Rather be a friend and stay with him.

* * *

My mobile dings, I can't answer it for almost two hours. Too busy with clients.

When I do look at the phone, it's Greg. He's left five messages for me to call him.

          _Call me please, and whatever you do, don't talk to Sherlock_

* * *

I ring him, and with every ounce of control try not to make a fool of myself until I hear what this is all about.

          "Greg, sorry it took so long."

          "John, can you come to my place to discuss this?"

          "Will be there in an hour."

Next I text Sherlock.

          _Having to stay late to do paperwork._

          _Stayed at Greg's after drinking too much last night-- again SH_

I don't bother replying to that. I'm still fuming, anger at both of my so-called friends.

* * *

Taking a cab to Greg's, having to decide what to say to him. How to express how disillusioned I am with him. 

* * *

His flat is small, enough for one person yet expansive enough not to feel too cramped. Typical bachelor pad. He was recently divorced, and it must be hard to be alone. 

But-why Sherlock?

* * *

Walking in the door, my jacket launched on the sofa, my feet wide apart, hands on hips, a scowl on my face, "explain."

Greg remarks, distress in his tone, "John it's not what you think."

          "What's not what I think? First, I'm sorry I rummaged through your drawer. I was looking for a pen and paper. Why the hell would you have a print of your 'friend' in the nude? Fucking naked, on your bed."

          " I can't tell you much right at this time because I'm sworn to secrecy by Sherlock."

          "Oh you have, sworn to secrecy?" He waltzes into your flat, takes his clothes off and you snap a photo of him, and you can tell me nothing happened? Answer me this. Have you and Sherlock had-"

My voice tight, and quivering. My fists balled, sitting in my trouser pocket.

          "Yes-but, don't accept what you see at face value. There's more to this picture, but I can't divulge it. It was harmless." Greg looks wretched. Obviously uncomfortable.

My face looks up at the ceiling, eyes wide, incredulous that he calls this harmless.

          "What the fuck does harmless mean. Did you or didn't you? " This pussyfooting around is exasperating.

          "John, everyone assumes you two are a couple-but I know better. You're not that way. You're not gay, so why the fuss?"

          "And you are? You shagged my flatmate. You, who I assumed," shrilly," and I guess wrongly, were a good chum, a drinking bloke."

My voice rising higher, thick with disgust.

          "I can't tell you the reason, but there are no romantic feelings."

That's it; I've had it, resentment boiling up, my fists pops out, and I let go and slug him in the face.

On the floor, his hand holding his cheek where my fist landed, he rises on one elbow.

          "Go ahead, punch me all you want. There's a reason, a good one for all of this, but I beg you, don't talk about this to Sherlock. Wait until he reveals it on his own, and he will."

          "Keep your hands off him, Greg."

My fist at the ready to hit him again.

Greg stands, arms crossed, his gruffness, eyes narrowed, I can tell he's not happy with me. 

          "John Watson, when are you going to put 'your' hands on him?" 

The emphasis on the word strikes me hard. It's what I want, what I long to do.

          "Well, he obviously doesn't want me if he's fucking you."

          "Ah, John. You should leave before this turns out worse than it is."

Hands down at his side, half turned from me.

          "Yeah, I guess so. Some friend you turned out to be."

          "Oh, you have no idea, John."

I open his door, take a last look at him, and walk out, slamming the door behind me.

* * *

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* * *

I have no choice. I have to call Sherlock.

          "Yes Greg, what is it?"

          "Can you talk? Is John there?"

          "No, he's not."

          " How to tell you this! John saw the picture of you, on the bed. He thinks we're going at it." 

          "Thank you, Greg. He's coming up the stairs as we speak."

Putting my phone in my pocket I lie on the sofa.

* * *

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* * *

Sherlock is lying on the sofa when I stomp up the steps.

          "You and Greg have a good time?"

A shit grin hits my face. "You bet." 

Hitching my trousers up and smoothing my hand over my crotch. Let Sherlock deduce how he wants.

Sherlock turns his head to the side, trying to glean information from me. His skills at looking at a person and seeing all are uncanny.

He's not fooled by my simple gesture and knows what went between Greg and me was not good at all. He doesn't ask.

* * *

This whole thing continues to eat at me. 

Why aren't I the one Sherlock is taking to bed?

Maybe because I have vehemently denied being gay?

But is Greg?

* * *

I have to let it go. If Sherlock prefers Greg then so be it.

* * *

Every time Sherlock leaves the flat I wonder, is he going to Greg's?

* * *

Greg and I have not been pub hopping since my visit to him.

When we do meet in public, I turn away, ignoring him as much as possible.

* * *

The Christmas holiday is approaching, and I have no idea what to get my flatmate. Clothes I cannot afford. He dresses in only the best brands. He doesn't drink, doesn't like dinners out, will almost never pick up a book unless it's a technical one.

* * *

          "John, I have a special request for Christmas. I'd like to have an evening with you. Dinner out, any restaurant."

          "Really?" the sarcasm dripping.

          "What is wrong? You've been hostile to me ever since your last visit with Greg. Talk to me."

          "You're just- oh never mind."

I walk away from him, not able to look him in the face.

          "Yeah, whatever, Sherlock!"

          "John?"

          "Shut up and make arrangements for Angelos. And leave me alone."

* * *

I've told Sherlock that Christmas Day I planned to be at my sister Harry's place. She's having a small group of friends over. No alcohol. She was an alcoholic once and has been clean for at least a year.

* * *

Most of the guests have left the party as the evening commences. It's been a warm day, and I decide to step out to get some air. Sheila and Janet are on the side of the building. Sheila, a petite blonde, pulls a bottle of wine out of a big bag she's carrying, each of us taking swigs. After a while, Janet leaves Sheila and I.

I've had a few too many, my brain woozy, forgetting tonight is Angelos, but instead concentrating on possibly getting laid.

          "John, I have more wine at my place, it's one floor up from Harrys," her demeanor suggesting a romp in bed.

Into the elevator and Sheila has her hand entwined in mine. The flat is the same size as Harrys, only a neater look to it. She pulls a pumpkin pie out of the refrigerator.

          "I made this myself. Want a taste?"

          "So, pumpkin pie and wine it is," rubbing my hands together. 

Sheila feeds me the pie between her fingers a little piece at a time, both of us giggling. I know I'm now inebriated, slooshed really. A chunk of the pie drops onto my shirt.

          "Take your shirt off and let me wash the spot."

Both of our hands not steady, trying to unbutton becomes at first a snickering, a touch of skin, a hitching of breath, and from there it's to the bed; in a haze of sex and liquor.

* * *

I fall asleep, and when woken by the urge to pee, it's late at night, and in my almost awake state I remember-shit messed this up. It's past time for the dinner with Sherlock.

* * *

Fumbling for my trousers to find my mobile and sure enough, texts from Sherlock. Never heard the pings.

* * *

          _John, it's getting late. We have a date tonight.SH_

          _you're still at Harry's. SH_

          _going with someone else since you're occupied._

* * *

Shit! Greg, I imagine. No, not imagining, knowing.

* * *

Dressing, I leave a note to Sheila, apologizing for leaving in the middle of the night. And thank her for a great evening. I'm still feeling the effects of the drink but more important I'm displeased with myself. Hopping into bed as I did, drunk, not good. I did that in my younger days and should know better now. 

* * *

Sherlock's not home. Probably with the Inspector. Being inspected.

He's got every right to be upset with me.

I finish the night in my bed, not a restful sleep. The quiet is overwhelming, Sherlock still not home.

* * *

Eggs and bacon in the refrigerator, after a shower and dressing, I'm in the process of cooking breakfast, here comes Sherlock, up the steps.

          "Welcome home, glad you had a good evening," in his best acerbic tone.

          "I guess you also did. It wasn't a waste for either of us then," just as caustic.

Hanging up his coat, unusual in itself, it sits where ever he dumps it. 

He approaches me, taking a cup from the drain board and pouring tea for himself, and casually, "dinner tonight?"

Why is he so insistent on this? To make up for shagging Greg? Sherlock never feels guilty. He's insensitive to emotions. Especially mine.

Taking a moment before answering, I agree.

* * *

Dinner at Angelos is a favorite place for us. At the table, there's the usual candle and a bottle of champagne.

Picking up the bottle, shaking my head in confusion, I ask, "Angelo, why the champagne?"

          "Ask your partner. He's the one who brought it here."

I turn inquisitively toward him and see a wistful smile, replaced by the deadpan face.

          "Holiday, remember John?"

Angelo brings a corkscrew, and the bottle is popped open, glasses poured.

Sherlock raises his glass, an almost melancholy, shy glance at me.

          "A toast to our friendship."

We do the usual clinking of glasses, the bubbly is in my mouth all in one gulp. 

          "John, please refrain from drinking too much."

          "Don't dictate to"-stopping short. No place or time to continue my spat.

* * *

As we're eating our meal, we or I should say I, finish the bottle of champagne.

I'm feeling the liquor. Yea drank too much again. The picture keeps entering my head; Sherlock and Greg, in bed.

* * *

I feel Sherlock's anger, anger at my drinking, although from the outside he looks composed.

          "Is this what you want, to emulate your father?"

          "Ha, and like him, I've got my reasons."

The cab ride home is tense, Sherlock's disapproving, mine sullen.

* * *

I head for the wine in the cupboard at home; Sherlock gets there at the same time as I.

          "No more," pushing me away and taking the bottle out of my hand.

          "Why, what do you care?" capturing the wine again.

I have the bottle in hand and run upstairs to my room with it and lock the door.

I hear Sherlock stepping to the door, banging on it.

          "Don't spoil the evening, John."

          "Go fuck yourshelf. Fuck Greg, youse deserve-."I know my words are blurry.

Ah, shit. I said Greg's name out loud. He knows I know.

The banging stops and Sherlock starts to descend the steps but climbs back up.

          "You know then," he says behind the door."Come out and let me explain."

Too close to throwing up I refuse to answer him.

I throw the empty bottle of wine at the door, find the wastebasket in time to empty my meal.

Sherlock's steps are slow to go down.

The bed is a good choice at the moment.

* * *

Sometime during the night I wake to pee and want some tea to calm my stomach and notice the little lamp on in the sitting room.

I can see Sherlock's curly head in his armchair.

          "I'm not going to elucidate on the Greg matter until you recuperate and your mind is clear,"not turning his head around.

          "Go fuck yourself, oh never mind, fuck who you want."

Taking some tea, I retire to bed.

* * *

The next morning I wake up, shower and dress, my head and stomach a mess. I must go to work today.

Downstairs Sherlock is in the kitchen; I don't even bother with breakfast. Don't want to talk or see him.

Greg texts me on my way out.

          _You have to give Sherlock a chance to explain_

          _I should listen to you? My friend?_

          _Stop being a stubborn ass. be home tonight._

          _I don't understand. Why are you pushing me on him? He's yours._

          _Don't be angry at either of us. Listen first, if you want to punch the man in the gut after then go ahead. But I guarantee you; you won't want to._

* * *

Back home in the evening, Sherlock has ordered Thai food. I still don't feel all that well but have to try something.

He brings out a bottle of wine, his eyes bore into me, sweeps back into the kitchen and puts it back. I raise my eyes in question.

          "No drinking tonight. At least not at first."

Both of us are wary of each other, silent as we eat. I manage the soup and leave the rest.

* * *

Dishes cleared and cleaned, Sherlock takes my elbow and directs me to the sofa. He sits next to me, his eyes burning into me.

          "This is not easy for me." I humph, here comes the confession. My heart gives out. I don't want to hear it.

Showing annoyance, he breathes deeply, in and out, as if the next statements will be his end.

          "I went to Greg for a specific reason. Not for sex with him as you are thinking."

My head pulls back, and my eyes pop. Expression stating 'you are shitting me right?'

          "Stop with the dramatics. I'm doing my best to explain an awkward situation." 

          "I'm a virgin, John, not given to human interactions on that level. For Christmas, I wanted to give you a huge present. Myself."

At that, my heart jumps, no, wait, can't take that in, can't process what-.

          "Terrified, not knowing, all my reading of you to no avail. I wanted to experience the intimacy. I asked Greg to teach me." 

My anger now surfaces.

          "You couldn't ask that of me?" trying to stand to get out of his sight.

Taking my hand he pulls me back down, holding onto it, his mouth giving a twist.

          "Wait, hear me out."

The pleading I hear is not expected, not from Sherlock.

          "He was to instruct me in the basics but no orgasm. I wanted to experience that with you." 

I'm in between anger and compassion for this strange man.

His eyes downcast, his shoulders slumped.

This was not easy for him, and I felt compassion.

Rubbing his hand, showing my warmth to him, I let him continue.

          "I wanted this to be a pleasant experience for you, not thinking of myself. Understanding your needs, what to do to fulfill you."

What a sigh thrusts out of him!

          "I did not experience an orgasm. Greg allowed me to bring him to gratification. I still come to you a virgin, if you'll have me." 

Stupified, I try to lift his face with a hand, to see that face I love. He evades me.

          "You did this for me? But, I thought-?"

          "Doctor, John Watson," lifting his face, sadness reflected in his eyes.

          "It was my offering to you. We were to have dinner at Angelos, a bit of champagne and once home I was going to take you to my bed." 

Now the tears begin to flow from me.

          "And I screwed it up. Oh Sherlock, how sorry I am." 

          "You jumped to conclusions, and rightly so. Greg wanted a remembrance. I never suspected you would find it."

          "Sherlock Holmes, can we have dinner at Angelos tomorrow?"

Our faces turned to each other, tears running down my face. He wipes them off lovingly with his thumb.

          "Let's reverse it. Love tonight, dinner tomorrow."


End file.
